


Sucker for Pain

by Hetsez



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Dirty Talk, Don't Like Don't Read, I can't write dirty talk, I love Fuze's voice tbh, M/M, Masochism, Mute is so willing and submissive, My one kinktober fic I guess, Neglect, One Shot, PWP, Rape, Swearing, This is the fic nobody asked for, Torture, Waterboarding, accent kink, alternative universe, anal penetration, dominant Fuze, i know the summary sucks, masochistic Mute, mercenary Mute, non-con, rebel Fuze, this is probably not for the faint hearted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 04:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16256528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hetsez/pseuds/Hetsez
Summary: He was a Brit, gone to fight a war that wasn't his own in nobody's land.The other was Uzbek, a rebel fighting for this land even though he had no right to it.The mercenaries and rebels were sworn enemies. But then, a situation gone wrong, the Brit is captured and at the rebels' mercy.





	Sucker for Pain

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been ready for uploading for months but I haven’t dared to all this time... I’d like to thank MadPaint for beta reading this and convincing me to upload it! I’m still unsure about it and I know it’s not one of my best, I’m sorry. I might delete it if it's to no one's liking.
> 
> This story was a joint idea of both good old Katargo and myself and my good friend Betti and myself. We all agreed Fuze's voice was hot and should be used in a fic in some way. Katargo provided the main idea of this fic (interrogation) and Betti made it all make sense (by making it an AU). I just added it all together. If you've read my stories you know I have the tendency to write happy endings and I'm also quite new to writing rape, so this fic won't be THAT bad... But still, please take caution as it does include rape and torture. 
> 
> Inspiration for the title was this song by Imagine Dragons: [Sucker for Pain.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vflvKljxPas) Don't say I didn't warn you! Don't like, don't read. It's as simple as that. Hope you all enjoy c:

Victory. 

The team had done it again. At their feet, numerous dead bodies. The air stale with the smell of blood and the smoke of gunfire still hung around the rooms. But they had emerged victorious, only losing several of their own men in the battle they had just fought. With a satisfied grin, the team was leaving. They had obtained the piece of intel they were looking for. No need to ceremoniously say goodbye to the dead. 

They were scum anyway. Mercenaries mostly, dead now, who didn’t even know what fight they were in. They were paid a big sum of money, but for what? To be killed the next day? What a useless existence. But alas, not every man earned his living the right and honest way, and for some men this was the only way out of poverty. Arabic men they were mostly, fled from their homes because of violence, but resolving to violence elsewhere. There were a few Europeans and Americans among the mercenaries as well, their motives simply being a search for thrill and action. 

No, the team had killed them all. There were no survivors. There were never any survivors. “First beat them up, then talk” was their motto. In reality, it never came to talking because the team simply killed everyone who set foot on their path. Mercenaries never had anything useful to say anyway, because their leaders told them what to do and what they needed to know and that’s it. They were paid to know nothing. No questions, only acts. 

But now, upon leaving, one of the members could have sworn he heard a noise from one of the dead. Raising his machine gun, he strained his ears for more sounds. He tensed when he heard faint groaning, a man in agonizing pain. His eyes darted from corner to corner as he sought for the source of the noise. The man stepped over bodies, on bodies, to find the one who appeared to be still alive. Was it one of the Arabic men, he was useless and worthless. Was it an American or European, he was still useless, but worth a ransom. 

One of his mates came to help. Together they searched among the dead bodies and found a bleeding mercenary, his face hidden by a gasmask. They cheered wickedly, hoisting the dying mercenary up roughly and dragging him outside, making sure they were not too gentle with the lifeless body. The mercenary was in between them, his arms involuntarily wrapped around their shoulders and his legs dragging over the floor and over his former mates' corpses. The mercenary was too weak to fight it. 

“Sergeant!” They cheered and shouted for their sergeant’s attention, so excited they were with finding a survivor. Whatever would happen now could only satisfy their bloodlust: either the sergeant would shoot this man in cold blood, or they could do it, or in a rare case the mercenary would be taken as a prisoner and they could possibly torture him. “We found a survivor!” They shouted as they got the sergeant’s attention. The other men on the team gathered around, laughing, shouting and cheering at the unfortunate mercenary. The man was held up only by the strength of his captors; without them he would have already fallen to the ground. 

“Show me his face.” The voice of the sergeant demanded, only heard faintly by the mercenary. Then his mask was yanked off his head, revealing a young face. His face was worn by the many battles he had seen, the many lives he had taken. He now saw the men before him clearly. The enemies stood around him in a wide circle, laughing and grinning sickly at him. The sergeant was in the middle of the circle, in front of him. His face was hidden by a full-face helmet, making it impossible for the mercenary to see any emotions or even recognise him. 

“What do you reckon, sir?” One of the men next to the mercenary asked his sergeant excitedly, but the sergeant stayed quiet for a while. He even walked around the mercenary once, slowly, as if he was inspecting his own men. What was he looking for? 

When the sergeant appeared before him once more, he asked the mercenary: “American? Or European? Obviously not Arabic.” The circle went quiet, all eager to hear the mercenary’s answer. 

But the captured man knew better than to answer, and stayed quiet. His mouth was a thin line, lips sucked inwards and his eyes shot daggers at the unknown face of the sergeant. Feverishly the merc tried to place that accent. It sounded Russian, or at least Slavic, like some of the other men’s accents around him. 

The sergeant gave him the time to answer, but when it became obvious his prisoner wouldn’t talk, he spoke again: “We have ways to make you talk, merc. It’s best if you cooperate now, or you will not have a nice time to look forward to.” The Slavic man behind the mask stayed professional, almost as if he did this every day. The crowd jeered and laughed, but the sergeant didn’t flinch. He just watched the mercenary from behind his goggles, and only God knew what the man was thinking of. 

But there was no God no more, at least to the mercenary. He might as well have died in the fight if his only prospect was torture. When he didn't speak, the mercenary was led away by the men holding him at a small hand sign of their sergeant, and the laughter in the circle only got louder. 

The mercenary had landed in his own personal hell. He was laden in the back of one of their trucks, his hands uncomfortably tied behind his back and a gag in his mouth. Then the world around him went dark, and for hours all he heard was the engine of the truck, all that he felt was the potholes and bumps on the road. The mercenary was still in severe pain, and shifted in and out of consciousness as he awaited his fate. 

 

\-- 

Pounding head ache. Bruised wrists. Parched throat. Muscles aching. And a dull pain. 

The merc had woken up, at first confused at his surroundings but then it all came back to him. The mission to defend important intel that had gone all wrong. The men he didn’t knew but called his allies who hadn’t been able to hold the building, dying before his very own eyes. The bullet he had taken, the whack of a terrorist’s rifle butt that had knocked him out. And when he had come to, they had heard him. They had found him. But they hadn’t killed him. It had been that damned sergeant’s idea to take him, probably for information, maybe for ransom. 

Those damned terrorists were better organised than the rebels had thought. And in no way would help come for him. He was dead to them the moment the terrorists found him. He was alone now, and really he could have better died. These terrorists were ruthless. 

Trying to sit up, the mercenary noticed his wounds had been treated. Well, there was a bandage on his side and the absence of agonising pain made him realise they must have given him some sort of pain killer. He was in the undershirt and pants he always wore underneath his gear, the fabric thin and tight. The rest of his clothing, his mask and his gear were nowhere to be seen. He sighed and reasoned that even though the material was thin, at least he wasn’t cold. 

From his propped-up position on a pathetic excuse for a bed, he looked around his cell. The bed on which he lay was a few wooden boxes put next to each other with a flimsy, thin mattress on them which was stained with dirt and blood. Over in a corner was a dirty bucket, obviously meant as a toilet facility. The merc grimaced as he looked at it. Furthermore, there was nothing but a door. In the door was a tiny window through which artificial light fell into his cell. He heard muffled voices outside of his room, but decided not to scream. Really, it was better if they forgot about him and he would starve right there, than that the terrorists would decide to interrogate him with ‘their ways to make him talk’. 

But alas, the guard must have noticed him waking up through the small window in the door, because soon it opened. In came a man whose face was covered by a balaclava. There was not a scratch on his gear, not a hole in his clothing. This guy was obviously important, probably some kind of leader. He talked in a language the mercenary did not understand while he inspected him. The man looked him up and down like he was some kind of strange animal while he made soft remarks in his own language. When the prisoner started to wonder if the interrogation would commence in a language unknown to him, the sergeant came in. 

The man still wore his mask and gear, dirty from the fight. How long had it been since he had seen the sergeant? Since he had been captured? The mercenary really couldn't tell. He had no time to think anyway, for the leader started speaking to him quickly. The merc stared at him, face stoic, determined to not say a thing for he could not understand the man in front of him anyway. However, he had not expected the sergeant would serve as an interpreter. When his superior went quiet, he spoke up. The prisoner recognised his voice and accent, and knew at once that this man behind the mask was indeed the same as the one he had met before. The accent. The bloody accent. 

“Welcome to our base, merc. We hope you will enjoy your stay,” the sergeant waited for a second, probably grinning underneath that helmet as the mercenary could hear the mocking tone in his voice. “and we beg for your cooperation. It will make things much… easier, if you do as we say and tell us what we want. However if you refuse to cooperate, we will use methods we prefer not to use.” 

The sergeant fell silent, and if the mercenary hadn’t been a weak prisoner, he would have admired the sergeant’s accent. The combination of his deep voice and the Slavic accent he still couldn't place spiked his interest even though he was supposed to hate the man for taking him as a prisoner. He nodded once to confirm that he had understood what the sergeant had said, and was forced to listen to the man with the balaclava again. This time it was short, however, and the sergeant translated for him: 

“We will start with a basic question. Where are you from?” 

Their prisoner stayed quiet. While the sergeant folded his arms, balaclava man laughed evilly and spoke again. The merc waited for the sergeant to translate. 

“Our ways of making you speak include torture in ways you haven’t even experienced in your worst nightmares, merc. I advise you corporate.” 

But the mercenary was determined to tell them nothing. All he wished for was for the sergeant to remove his mask, so he could see the face that belonged to the voice that shamelessly aroused him so much. But the helmet stayed on and balaclava man laughed once more. He exchanged a few words with his sergeant before said man grabbed a handful of the prisoner’s shirt, threw him on the floor, and shouted at him to walk. Clambering to his feet, the mercenary wobbled on his legs, not having the strength to walk just yet. But if he wouldn’t move, the sergeant would make sure to kick him on. Out the door, down the hallway. There the men that stood guard over the prison cells kicked at him as well, laughing with the sergeant as if the weak merc was the best entertainment they had had in years. 

On he crawled, through corridors and halls that were dusty and filthy. More than once he completely collapsed, weak as he was because of his wounds and the lack of food. Had it not been better now to stay in his cell and answer the questions of the sergeant with the hot accent? Yes, but this torture would have happened anyway. That’s the way of terrorists; they make you feel like you have a choice to keep your skin, but they will always find a reason to torture you. It's fun to them, maybe even a sport. And thus the merc had decided he preferred being tortured to death telling them nothing, than being tortured to death after they had found out exactly who he was. 

The merc was pushed down the stairs, spat on and jeered at in the Slavic language of the sergeant, but not once did he object. Balaclava man followed contently, satisfied about not having to ruin his clothes kicking the prisoner about. The sergeant was rough, but the merc refused to groan in pain. The masked man did not deserve that kind of satisfaction. Soon the real torture would start, though, and he already knew he wasn’t going to be able to control his screams. He wondered if the sergeant would interrogate him under torture, or if the balaclava man would do it. 

Bruised and beaten he reached the dungeons, the real torture not even having started yet. Panting, the merc sat on the floor, trying to catch his breath, but he wasn’t allowed to. The sergeant picked him up roughly by his shirt, ripping it slightly, and shouted at him to move on. Crawling painfully the prisoner obeyed, entering the small torture room almost as if it was on his own free will. There were more men in there, already preparing cruel devices. Two of them picked the mercenary up and fastened him tightly to a chair. He only just saw balaclava man leaving, closing the door while talking to his sergeant. The sergeant stayed. But it would soon become obvious that not even the sergeant would do the dirty work. 

Their torture dungeon was dirty, dark and warm. The merc could see all kinds of unfriendly looking devices that were the “ways to make him talk” from his position tied up to the chair. He experimentally tried to move his arms and legs, but found he had no space whatsoever to even wiggle around a bit. The restraints were already starting to cut into his skin. Then the soldiers gathered around the chair, while the sergeant kept a decent distance as to not be in the way of the torturers. 

They set to work without any further ado. 

While the normal soldiers tortured him, water boarding mostly, the sergeant asked the questions. Even if the mercenary had wanted to answer the questions, he didn’t get the opportunity for it. The torture went on and on, and he concluded that at least the soldiers didn’t really want answers but simply enjoyed seeing him in pain. Countless of times he was sure he had drowned and that it was finally over, before the cloth was removed again and he realised he was still in the torture room, and still alive. It made him feel like he was high on drugs, his mind not on earth even though his body was. The effect of the painkillers had long worn off, and his old wounds of the days before combined with the bruises of today and the torturing made the merc feel more miserable than he had ever felt before. 

The merc clenched his jaws, kept his mouth tightly shut. Not only to keep himself from shouting any answer he thought the sergeant might want to hear, but also to keep his groans under control. But every time he felt the sensation of drowning again he screamed, and the men would laugh. It wasn’t fair, the game they played. Their prisoner was a little frail bird they toyed with, and the rebels were the big fat cat. The merc was exhausted, having lost every sense of time and space. 

It wasn’t like the torture really hurt, though. It was just the idea of complete and utter helplessness, being tied down and not able to move, feeling like he was drowning over and over again. During those long hours he clung on to the voice of the sergeant. He was still asking him questions, but the merc could no longer identify the words. All he heard was the monotone, deep male voice, and it was what kept him down to earth. Every time the soaking-wet cloth was removed from his face, he would stare at the man. And somehow, the merc knew he was staring right back through those dark goggles in his mask. 

He was mesmerized by the sergeant, fascinated, captivated, charmed... The presence of him made the torture so much easier to endure, that in his delirious moments the merc fantasized hearing the voice speak to him in much different situations, his presence in much more pleasant circumstances. The mercenary closed his eyes and let the agony come down on him while he listened to the soothing voice, that was never meant to soothe him and bathed in the enjoyable feeling of his presence, that was never meant to be enjoyable... 

 

\-- 

The days went by. The mercenary got it all – from waterboarding to burns with white-hot iron, from sleep deprivation to choking. But he wouldn’t talk. Really he had almost forgotten who we was and why he was there. The mercenary was delirious; he didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t anymore. During his sleep he woke up screaming, thinking he was still being tortured. During the actual torture, he was a lifeless doll. But every day the voice of the sergeant was all that encouraged him not to give up. 

And it was in one of his dreams – or was it real? – that the sergeant came to the mercenary again, and took him to the dungeons. He didn’t speak, nor kick him about this time, but rather let him walk at his own pace. The prisoner ached all over, was malnourished and could barely stand, but he walked on as if he was sleep walking. It was the pain killers combined with the dreamy presence of the masked sergeant. He liked being alone with him. 

The merc noticed they met no guards, heard loud music and shouting voices coming from somewhere else in the building and saw through the tiny dirty windows that it was dark. Thinking feverishly, he concluded that it must be in the middle of the night and that his captors were all upstairs having a party. Then why was the sergeant with him, and why was he leading him down to the dungeons? Surely the sergeant wouldn’t torture him, or would he finally take pity and end his misery? And shouldn’t he attend the party? But the sergeant didn’t talk; he simply followed and only led him down into the darkness. 

The merc entered his personal torture room, as usual. Now it was either the chair or the stone-hard bench he got tied down to every time. He now knew all their tools of torture and was no longer afraid, just tired. Tired of his life. So what would it be today? A beating? Another limb being cut off? He had already lost two fingers, so why not another one? Or his whole hand? The mercenary didn't care anymore. He wished his captors would just let him die. But for that he would have to give them information, priceless information only so that they could sell him on. Once they found out he was a Brit and had ties with the military, they would put him straight on the black market. Sold as a slave, but most likely sold to be executed by a radical group. The bastards would film his beheading and it would be broadcasted back home. No, he wouldn't let that happen. He would endure all the torture they threw at him, until he died. 

But this time the torture was different. 

The sergeant turned the lights on, but he blindfolded the mercenary. That was new. Then he tied the merc's hands behind his back tightly and painfully before he took his distance. The merc was left standing in the middle of the small room, vulnerable and alone. He relied on his ears to locate the sergeant, but a nagging, uncomfortable feeling crept up his spine. This wasn't right. He wondered if these men even did any administration, but he was fairly sure this torture session wasn't in the books. No others, just him and the sergeant. Did balaclava man know about this? Or had he given him the order to torture him on his own? And why was he blind folded, but not tied up to a chair? Why were his hands tied, but not his legs? 

The sound of an object hitting wood. A table? What was being put on a table? What was the sergeant doing? 

"What is your name, merc?" It was the same old question the sergeant had asked every session, but this time, his voice didn't sound muffled. The mercenary's head turned in the direction of the voice instantly, but obviously he couldn't see a thing. The helmet was off. But his own eyes were covered. At this point he was so desperate, he would give his whole arm if only he could see the face that belonged to the voice that seduced him in the wrongest ways possible. 

The merc stayed quiet, his fear of the unknown now mixed with curiosity. Was the sergeant tired of his helmet? Why had he taken it off? Did he think his prisoner couldn't hear him? If that was the case, all his previous torturing had been useless. But he had been able to hear the sergeant, oh yes. That voice had haunted his dreams. In a good way, though. His cold, uncaring tone, his accent and the way he pronounced English words... It was a voice he was so willing to obey, if only the situation had been different. The merc wondered if the situation he wanted was close at hand now. 

"I have noticed you do not respond to our usual methods of torture, merc. Impressive. But I have noticed you respond to something else..." The sergeant's voice was low, like a predator, just like his movements. The mercenary could hear him coming towards him, stalking him, and involuntarily he shuffled backwards. He moved carefully and his steps were uncertain, afraid to trip and hurt himself. He had no hands to use to catch himself with, and his whole body was so hurt and broken already. 

What had the sergeant noticed? It was fairly obvious to the merc. During his long and agonising days in captivity, he had responded to little else than that hot voice. 

"You're fascinated by my voice. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Filth you are, that you get horny over something so pathetic while my men are squeezing the life out of you.” The sergeant said bluntly. It was the most personal thing he had ever said to the mercenary and already he was getting turned on. “But now they're not here. Now it's just you and me. So I'll exploit your weakness, merc, and you will answer my voice, understood?" The sergeant was still advancing on him, or so the mercenary guessed from the close distance of his voice. 

"A-affirmative." The merc heard himself say, his voice cracked and broken. He could hit himself now, if only his hands weren't tied. Those were the first words he had said in days! Hadn't he sworn to stay silent? But that voice held authority and the merc wanted nothing more than to obey, if that would get him what he wanted. 

"That was easy." The sergeant jeered at him. "Nice to finally hear your voice as well, don't think I've had the pleasure yet." 

The mercenary shook his head blindly, scared to answer now. He moved backwards until his back hit a cold, stone wall. Trapped. It didn’t take long before the sergeant's broad body was flush against his, chest to chest. A hand grabbed his chin roughly and forced his head up so that his throat was bare while his other hand pushed him into the bricks. His heart thumped in his throat, a feeling he had gotten used to by now. Only this time, he knew the pain would be much different. 

"Now you have to tell me your name, in order for this to work..." The sergeant mumbled, his lips on the merc's exposed throat. The touch was only a ghost, not enough to be satisfying but good enough for the deprived mercenary. 

He gulped as the sergeant brought his big calloused hand to his cheek, cupping it gently. The mercenary knew he was only being so gentle to get what he wanted, but he didn't want to burst this dream. It had been so long, and he needed this. The sergeant trailed his lips down to the crook of his neck and placed one single kiss, enough to make the merc groan weakly with want. 

"Well?" The sergeant asked from down there while he entangled his hand in the merc's unkept, messy hair. "Give me your name merc, and I will give you so much more. Seems like a fair trade, right?" The seduction dripped of his lips as the merc listened to his Slavic accent, loving it and wanting to obey. 

But he shouldn't obey, he shouldn't answer the questions, but it was so damn hard now. The mercenary cursed inwardly for being so weak. He had lived through countless of painful torture, only to be broken by a man whose accent he fancied? But the sexual tension, it wasn't fair. The sergeant was smart for using this fascination against him. So damn smart, the merc hated him for it as well as loved him. A man with an accent like that made him go weak, especially as he was exploiting the situation. 

"Did we even leave enough energy and blood in you to get it up? I bet you jerked off to my voice every time we left you alone in your cell, imagining it was my hand around your cock. And this is your fantasy, isn't it? Pathetic." The sergeant mocked, his hand sliding down from the merc's cheek over his thin chest and down to his crotch. He teasingly felt the mercenary's thighs through the thin fabric of his ragged trousers, denying him any real pleasure but giving him a taste of it. "Give me your name and I will give you that fantasy." 

The merc clenched his hands behind his back and if the blindfold wasn't covering his face, the sergeant could have seen his face was screwed up in concentration. He wanted to give in but he knew very well he shouldn't. It was true he had jerked off to the sergeant's voice in his first few days here – but after the sleep and food deprivation and the pain, he hadn't been able to get a full-on anymore. He didn't even think he could get one now, even though the hottest man on earth was touching him. It was physically impossible to him. But that didn't mean the sergeant couldn't get one and fuck him into oblivion while talking dirty to him in that seductive accent of his. Very low, yes, but that was what the mercenary craved for at the moment. 

"Don't you want this, merc? Don't you want me touching you?" The sergeant's hand stopped working on the mercenary's thighs before he continued in a whisper: "Don't you want me bending you over and fucking you until you're screaming?" And his hand shot up, grabbing the mercenary's throat once again forcefully. Jumping up and shouting out in surprise, the merc momentarily forgot how to breathe. 

"Mark!" Disregarding all caution and risks, the merc had shouted his name, being driven crazy by the sergeant. He bucked his hips into the sergeant immediately, wanting his reward. 

Mark could hear the sergeant chuckle. "See? That wasn't so hard. Good boy, Mark. Care to tell me more? And where you're from as well?" He now moved his hand from Mark's throat to his crotch, kneading it expertly, encouraging him to answer. His prisoner was stiff in his hand, a semi-boner he could probably not get up fully. Shame, then he would miss out on all the fun. 

"Ch-Chandar... Britain. Army. Deserted." Mark stuttered before he groaned out loud, enjoying the attention he had longed for for so long. He loved the way the sergeant pronounced his name, sounding even more seductive than it had in his mind. 

"Oh, rebellious eh?" The sergeant teased, not really caring to hear Mark's reasons for deserting the army. "Well then, Mark, my name is Shuhrat. Feel free to scream it while I fuck you and destroy your ass. If you can pronounce it, that is." 

Mark heard the smirk in his words before he was turned around roughly. The pathetic excuse for pants he wore were yanked down by Shuhrat, who kicked his legs to spread them. Mark obediently widened his legs, even though he didn't really have a choice anyway. With his hands behind his back and blindfolded Mark stood there against the cold stone wall, waiting for what was to come. And boy, he knew what would come now. He heard the shifting of fabric behind him and then the unmistakeable sound of flesh beating flesh. Once again he regretted not knowing what the sergeant's face looked like, for he now tried to visualise the scene behind him. 

The sergeant was jerking himself off right behind him and that must be the hottest thing in the world to behold if only Mark could see it. Shuhrat was a broad-shouldered, muscled man, and Mark could only fantasise what proper sex with him would feel and look like. Without meaning to, Mark sighed. Because proper sex wasn't what he was going to get. The man with the hot voice, who had haunted his dreams all those nights he had been locked up in here, was going to rape him. Unceremoniously and unannounced. But right now, he didn't care anymore. He was tired, tired of life. And if his last experience on this earth was to be raped by a man he fancied, so be it. It was his death wish. 

"See this as your reward, Mark." Shuhrat was suddenly right behind him, and Mark shivered as his hot low voice sounded into his ear. He felt the heat radiating from Shuhrat's body through the thin fabric of his torn and dirty shirt. He was so close, so damn close to him. 

Without a warning, Shuhrat pressed the tip of his cock against Mark's entrance. Without preparation, it was going to be a rough, painful penetration, but the precum on Shuhrat's dick seemed to help somewhat. He forced the head of his dick inside, leaving Mark to cry out in pain. 

Not even for this would the sergeant get his hands dirty. 

"Thought you wanted this so badly, slut. And now I'm giving it to you, you're crying? How ungrateful..." Shuhrat grunted into Mark's ear, the delicious accent rolling off his tongue as he still tried to shove himself into Mark's tight entrance. 

Shuhrat's dirty talk encouraged him, making him push his arse out against his captor's hips. His bold action was punished by a hard slap on his arse cheek, as if to tell him he was not the one in control here. And he wasn't. Shuhrat pushed him into the rough wall hard as he forced more and more of himself inside Mark. While the sergeant cursed in his own language, Mark let out a mixture of groans of pleasure and pain. Hearing the man behind him having a hard time to keep control of his needs, and expressing that by talking in his own language, turned Mark on immensely. But the pain of the intrusion and the stone wall cutting into his skin left his eyes watering in pain. 

"Fuck, you're tight. Does no one ever fuck you, Mark? Is this your first time in years? I understand now why you were so desperate for my dick, you filthy whore." Shuhrat finally talked English again, his accent becoming thicker the deeper he drove himself inside his prisoner. But Mark wasn't listening to what exactly he said, but to that hot voice, and that even hotter accent... 

It took a few minutes, but Shuhrat finally got himself in balls deep. He chuckled victoriously before he pounded into Mark's arse, moving much easier now that he had forced his whole length into him. Mark cried out in pain, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He couldn't do any more as he was flush between the rough stone wall and Shuhat's sweaty body. His watering eyes had now developed into tears streaming down his face and staining the blindfold. It hurt. It hurt like a bitch, but when Shuhrat talked, oh boy. Mark was in heaven. 

"This is for not talking after hours of torture, you filth. And now you talk, huh? Just to get my cock. Was all the torture worth it? The pain?" Shuhrat groaned, his accent becoming thicker by the minute. Soon Mark might not even be able to understand him anymore, but he found he didn't really care. That voice was all he needed. 

And oh yes, the torture had been worth it. Definitely. 

Shuhrat rammed him into the wall. He moved hard, fast and desperately, as if he too hadn’t been able to get off in a satisfying way for weeks. Mark allowed himself to be amused with the thought the sergeant needed this just as badly as he did. 

The sharp stones cut into his skin deep, but the pain was nothing compared to the stretch of his arse. Shuhrat was big, just as Mark had imagined, but without proper preparation it would take a long time before this would feel pleasurable, if it ever did. And still, it did pleasure him. The thought of that strong, proud, mysterious sergeant raping him, all alone here in the dungeons... No one heard him scream and groan, and somehow that turned him on. The sergeant's voice and that accent, along with his heavy breaths and swear words, Mark felt his own erection throb. But no way in hell would he be able to cum. Mark already hoped for a second time to be alone with the sergeant, if he survived this... 

"You cheap slut, you're enjoying this, aren't you?" Shuhrat managed to roll the complicated English words off his tongue while he breathed heavily. He was not far off his climax, and still he tried to tease Mark. “Do you want it? Tell me, do you want it?” In response Mark cried out his name. It sounded weird with his British accent, but it seemed to encourage the sergeant. Shuhrat shoved his cock in and out of Mark's sore arse, gripping his hips tightly to keep him in place and exactly where he wanted him. 

Every sensation was doubled for Mark, who couldn't see a thing. He could feel the whole length of Shuhrat's dick riding up his arse, could feel the nails digging into his skin and could feel the hot breath on his neck. In the pain he felt through his whole body, Mark clung onto Shuhrat's voice and grunts. Even when Shuhrat completely humiliated him, Mark groaned louder. It had been the same as when he was being tortured. Shuhrat's voice kept him sane and alert. It softened the pain somewhat as it turned him on. 

With a low grunt Shuhrat came deep inside Mark, who could feel the heat spreading in him. His own dick throbbed and pulsed in response, needing the relief but unable to get it. The sergeant pulled his dick out of Mark harshly, who groaned once more. Mark could feel the cum leaking out as it dripped on his legs before he fell to the floor; Shuhrat no longer held him up, and Mark didn’t have the strength to do it himself. He was spent. He lay there on the cold, dirty floor, cum seeping out of his arse as he heard Shuhrat walking away without a word. The door opened and closed once, and he heard new voices and footsteps moving around the room. 

It seemed to have taken the sergeant an eternity to get himself cleaned up and dressed again, it seemed to Mark, but suddenly he heard footsteps near him again. Shuhrat stood in front of him and yanked the blindfold off his face. Mark blinked at the sudden light invading his eyes and looked up at the sergeant, who wore his helmet again. 

"Going to get a good price for you." Shuhrat said, sounding amused. He stared down at Mark through the visor of his helmet, and seemed to be thinking about something. "But I'll be back before that. Should love to keep you here for my own amusement." He added before he walked away. He gave his men some orders in his own language, and Mark was brutally picked up from the floor and dragged upstairs and back to his cell. They never bothered to clean him nor pull his trousers back up. But it didn't matter. 

The sergeant would be back.


End file.
